


Hour of Ease

by OldShrewsburyian



Series: Dangerous Ends [2]
Category: The Hour
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, F/M, Hospitals, James Bond References, Language of Flowers, Literary References & Allusions, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 00:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10231865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Bel visits the hospital, January 1958. Freddie quotes Walter Scott at her. Their conversation, as always, does not consist entirely in those things that are said.





	

Bel leaves the studio in the gathering dark, exhilarated and exhausted by the day's work, and takes the Circle line to Paddington. The brick mass of St. Mary’s Hospital seems curiously subdued after the hubbub of the studio. The hospital's bustle is quieter, almost ashamed of being urgent. She signs the roster handed across the visitors’ desk by a weary trainee. She is slightly surprised that no one questions her presence as she makes her way to his ward, slightly surprised that she is already so sure of the way.

The illusion that he is sitting up turns out to be created by a hinge in the bed, the entire mattress propping him into a semi-recumbent position. The reason for this is a tray neatly drawn up in front of him, holding a bowl of something that appears to be congealing.

“I wish _I’d_ figured out how to retract that damned handrail,” says Bel by way of greeting. It is only when she moves to put down her handbag that she consciously notices the bouquet of yellow and white gladioli dwarfing the table. “These are nice.”

“Marnie,” explains Freddie laconically. “Hullo.” 

“Hullo. Fine dining tonight, I see.” Her levity rings false in her own ears, but he smiles his one-cornered smile. Bel draws up her chair, trying to surreptitiously assess the level of porridge in the bowl. 

“The nurse stayed as long as she could,” says Freddie, in response to the look. “I shan’t starve. And there’s really no reason I shouldn’t be able to handle… a spoon…”

“And there’s no reason you should have to, either, is there?” says Bel, with a forced brightness, and takes charge of the bowl. She is secretly grateful for something to do, something to occupy both of them; but she is nonetheless surprised when Freddie meekly opens his mouth. 

“The studio’s never been busier,” she continues. “What’s odd is how quiet it is. Well, not quiet—the phones are ringing off the hook—but I never realized how much we usually talk. No chat, no shouting across the hall for this or that…” She watches him swallow. The bruises on his throat have grown more vivid, more clearly recalling the position of fingers. 

“Randall looks like he hasn’t slept,” says Bel. She finds herself holding a spoonful of porridge suspended. Freddie has closed his eyes. “Are you all right? Is it too revolting? Did I put too much on the spoon?” She waits, fighting down irritation, fighting down fear. And then she sees the tear at the corner of his eye grow heavy and fall; the second, the third…

“Oh, Freddie.” It is the work of a moment to lift the tray to the ground. She sits on the edge of the bed. “Freddie,” says Bel, fingering his pajama sleeve, “talk to me.”

He does not even demur. He only shivers, convulsively.

“All right.” Bel lays her hand as lightly as possible against his face. “All right. I hate this too. I hate seeing you like this. I hate not knowing what to do. I hate it.” She moves her hand back to his sleeve, where she traces a pattern, trying to imagine his bruises, trying not to. As his breathing evens, she takes a corner of the sheet to wipe away the tears. He flinches slightly as she moves around the swelling, but swallows hard, and meets her eyes.

Bel smiles. “There we are.”

He moves his head against the pillow. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do this, Bel.” The steadiness of that familiar gaze is almost disconcerting. “I don’t know how we can…”

“Neither do I.” Bel takes his hand in hers, is rewarded with its pressure. “But you are a master of the impossible, Freddie.”

He smiles at her, infinitely tender, infinitely tired. “I thought I was going to die.”

“I’m so sorry, Freddie.” What else is there to say? _I told you so. You perverse idiot. I love you. I cannot bear this._

“It was more than fear, you see.” His voice and his hands have begun to shake, but he continues: “It was knowledge. I knew—that they meant to kill me. And I knew there was nothing to stop them.” He fights for breath, fights for self-mastery.

“Freddie…”

“I was fighting,” says Freddie distinctly, “with the wrong weapons. I was going to lose—everything… I was going to lose you…” 

“But you’re not. You’re not.” The hand that trembles in hers she presses between both of her own. There are no other assurances. Just this, and the ragged sound of his breathing in the room, the faint hiss of the oxygen that accompanies it. It seems to her a long time that they are like this, motionless.

“O Woman!” quotes Freddie softly, “in our hours of ease / Uncertain, coy, and hard to please…”

“I _beg_ your pardon.”

“When pain and anguish wring the brow / A ministering angel, thou.”

“Ugh,” says Bel. “Not up to your usual standard, Freddie. Anyway, isn’t it wreathe?”

“Wring.”

She retrieves the tray. “I always thought—open up, if you want any before it’s _completely_ cold—that it was about laurels. Pain and anguish like laurels, wreathing.” 

“I think it’s about a headache.”

“How unromantic. Not Scott’s finest hour, in any case.”

“No.” They fall back into silence. At length, Bel puts down the spoon. She finds herself wishing that his face were less transparent to pain, less drained in repose. 

“I should go,” she says. His silence she fills with reasons. “I should let you get some rest. I should get myself some dinner.”

His hand tightens on hers before releasing it. “All right, Moneypenny.”

“You know I hate when you call me that.”

“Mmhm.”

She brushes his cheek with her lips. “Goodnight, James.”

**Author's Note:**

> Freddie quotes a popular excerpt from Walter Scott's _Marmion._ The sufferer in the poem suffers from a serious head wound, not a mere headache; Freddie's version of this may be due to self-deprecation, a bad memory for poetry, or both. The laurel wreaths Bel imports into the poem were given to conquerors in the Roman world.
> 
> Gladioli represent strength of character and faithfulness; yellow and white are usually used to denote cheerfulness/compassion and purity of intent, respectively. Marnie would know such things and act on them, I feel.


End file.
